In The Mind Of A Murderer
by Wolf-Kaiserin
Summary: A Piece Of Original Writing. Give Me The Feedback Please. Jonathon Lockheart is a wealthy widower living with his son. In the middle. But what happened in the begining? And what happens at the end?


**In The Mind Of A Murderer**

_A crunch, a footstep falling on the gravelled driveway and you freeze, heart pounding, breath racing, cold sweat rolling down the back of your neck. Don't move, you plead to yourself. Whatever happens don't move. And then you realise that the footfall was your own and you release the breath that you didn't know you'd been holding. You could feel it shaking as it leaves your lips but you didn't hear it. It got whisked away by the cold biting wind that scraped the almost empty branches of the yew tree against the huge French windows of the living room and tossed the few remaining red and golden leaves up into the stormy sky. Stop. Concentrate. If your focus slips for even a second... It's all over._

_It's been planned to perfection. Nothing can go wrong but still your skin feels rough and calloused, icy, and it's nothing to do with the weather. Sneak round the back, being especially careful to avoid the fencing because Mrs. O'Whats-her-face insists on looking out of her window every second of the God damn day. Stupid, nosey old bat. You should pay her a visit soon... No. Stop. Focus. Your feet halt on the patio for a moment as you regather your thoughts and your motivation. There are other cows that need to be dealt with tonight. A cruel almost silent chuckle was blown into the night._

_No need to avoid the security cameras as your leather clad hand slips the key into the lock of the back door. At precisely 9.45pm this evening you went into the control panel and put them on freeze. The clock is ticking away on the video but the image shows no change other than the weather changing and the tree moving. You are invisible. The key slips in silently and you turn it slowly, your ears perked for the almost imperceptible click that tells you the lock has moved. A flash from behind you as lightening strikes lighting up temporarily your smirking features and you can see your own reflection in the glass of the door. That glint in your eyes, silver slashing through perfect baby blue, that makes you look truly evil. The best part. You don't care._

_Quickly open, slip in, and close the door behind you. Can't have the now sheeting rain getting inside and staining the carpet. Apart from the obvious evidence that leaves behind, you paid good money for that carpet. It was Moroccan and cost more than most peoples whole house to be carpeted. You were not spoiling it for that...Tart. You were lucky the rain didn't break until after you were under the porch. If you left wet footprints heading towards the living room where that whore that calls herself your wife lies dead asleep, well, you'd be hanging from the gallows in no time. That's your game though. 90% luck and 1% skill. And 9% stone cold greed. You allow yourself to chuckle again seeing as the cameras are disabled and no one can hear you. It feels good. This is something to laugh over._

_You pad over to the living room where the embers of a once roaring fire cast a dim glow on the pale, slight beauty who sleeps so deeply in the left of the two 18th Century Chesterfield chairs that decorate the room. There's a red stain on the floor already, and for perhaps the one hundredth time tonight, you panic. Could something have gone wrong after all your precautions? Could someone have reached her first? But then you see the almost empty wine glass on the floor, cracked slightly after falling on the corner of the Persian rug and hitting the flag stones that was the floor. She'd dropped it. Stupid cow that glass was clear cut crystal... Damn her. But regardless you had a job to do, and she would soon have her comeuppance. Oh yes, you chuckled again, she'd pay for that glass. Literally._

_Such a shame she had a weak heart, and slept so badly. It's a bad combination you know, heavy sleeping medicine and a spate of heart tremors. You remember the moment you'd poured 5 tiny paper sachets into that bottle of Torquay '32 and considered just emptying them all in. Surely that would do it... But no. This was real life, not a murder mystery. There were no such thing as untraceable medicines here and if she overdosed on her medicine suspicions and accusations would start flying. Cruel evil tongues would start wagging, piercing your skin into your heart. Claiming you, you of all people, would harm the life you loved so very very dearly. How could they?_

_The grin was back as you reached into the inner pocket of your black waterproof trench coat and you pulled out an R-77 Gamo revolver. Opening the cylinder you took from your pocket a single... Rubber bullet. A trauma bullet. A single fire into the chest would cause the victim to have an instant heart attack, leaving no mark but a tiny bruise that would fade in 20 minutes. You raise your perfect weapon, barely needing to aim as you clicked the cylinder back into place... And fired. It hit her square in between her pretty breasts and she spasmed slightly once, back arching ever so slightly, before she fell limp. Her eyes didn't open, and you thought it a shame. It would have been so... Rewarding to see the light dim behind those pretty chocolate eyes. The proof of a job well done. But instead you stooped down and retrieved the tiny rubber bullet and slipped it back in your pocket._

_You ghosted through the house again, dropping your keys underneath the lock of the front door as if they'd fallen from the keyhole, before changing your mind and putting it in the hole on the inside, then left and closed the back door behind you. The automatic locking system activated and you slink away like a denizen of darkness sent straight from the bowels of hell. And maybe you were. You hurriedly used the woods behind your house to sneak to the main round, about half a mile back. It took 10 minutes. You drove the car which you'd hidden in the trees back round to the drive and steppe out, getting soaked in the rain. It had been 20 minutes. The time it had taken you to get from the pub, where you'd supposedly gone, to here. An alibi? Of course you had an alibi! Did you look stupid? Your drinking partner who you happened to have under your thumb. Your not the only one with secrets... Stop. Focus._

_"Cara? Love?" That's right keep knocking. Look through the letter box, through the key hole, run to the window and look through.  
"Mr. Lockheart?" Oh good. It seems nosey old bags have their uses... "Is something wrong?" Turn to her, a tired, amused and slightly annoyed expression on your face. Inside your panicking slightly. Damnit what's the stupid woman's name? O'Connel? O'Leary? O... Oh damn... Calm. Cool. Concentrate. It doesn't matter.  
"Yes. I've locked myself out of the house and Cara's fallen asleep." Put on a relieved smile, make it seem like you're happy to see her. She will be your second alibi.  
"Oh dear. Well, let's see if we can't get you in." From then on everything passes in a blur, and you know its all over. You've won. The police get called in to open the door, they find your wife. You play the part, 'Oh my darling wife! I can't believe it! How did it happen? How?!' And then it goes on. There won't be a post mortem. There wont be an investigation. And all that will happen is you'll get £50, 000 on the life insurance. Oh yes. She'll pay for that glass..._

* * *

_"_Good Evening William!" Inside I felt myself shudder. That... **Whore**._ It seemed bad taste ran in the_ family. Isabella was my sons wife. His first, only, wife. He hadn't taken up the family business, much to your... Amusement. Murdering wives for their life insurance was a bad habit. Perhaps it was good that he hadn't picked it up...  
"Hey dad." Alec made me feel so proud. A biochemist recently out of Oxford. He certainly got that intelligence from my side of the family. There was only one mistake he'd made... His choice in life time partner. Isabella didn't deserve him. She didn't deserve my butler. I've seen the men in suits that come in and out of this house when me and William aren't home, when she thinks she's cut the security cameras.

To think she was doing... That. In my house, that I bought, in my sons room. To my boy. My poor, trusting, naive little boy. Who... I truly loved, more than anything else. But what could I say? Ever since he met her, he's been so full of joy. For him I keep my silence, not for her, not for the family honour.  
"We want to talk to you." She smiled at me sickly sweet and talked with a voice so high I'm sure it made my ears bleed, her platinum blonde hair looking so artificial I think she must have ripped it off the head of a Barbie and stuck it on, the thick, chunky, tasteless, jewel encrusted items that decorated her neck, ears, hands and wrists, bought using mine an my sons hard earned money. The very model of image perfection. The very model of airbrushing and falseness.  
"We're moving out. To New York." Alec beamed. My heart froze. 'No. She's not... Not taking him from me... _**Bitch**_...'  
"Isn't that great? You'll help us with the finances right dad?" She squeaked at me. 'My money. She wants to take my money, my son, and only use him and me to get a good bang... This ends now.'  
"Of course." I said, my voice somewhat dead. 'I still have it... Yes. Perfect.'  
"Great!' She squealed. "Come on Al, let's go plan!" He shot her a glowing smile and let her drag him from the room. And I sat and began planning myself.

* * *

_You're on the inside this time and inside your chuckling. It's been a long time since you decided to retire, was it going to be difficult? You saw her sleeping heavily an you smirked. No. It wasn't. Walking to the 18th Century Chesterfield chair you slipped a hand into your pocket and took out a small phial with a clear liquid in. Cyanide. It was traceable of course, no such thing as an untraceable poison. If you got caught... You wouldn't. Simple as that. Alec would understand, this was for him. For the both of you._

_Grab her chin and fore her mouth open. Her eyes flew open and she struggled, staring up terrified at you terrified. You forced the phial between her lips and tilted her head back, keeping a hold of her as she writhed and thrashed. Snap her jaw closed, hold her nose. She swallows after a few seconds. She had to, or she'd choke. Let go of her nose but hold her jaw closed just in case, grab her hands and hold them still so she can fight no longer. She begins to choke and gurgle as the cyanide took effect, began convulsing, her heartbeat slowed. She stopped breathing. You let her go and she fell, limp against the chair._

_Lightening flashed and rain hammered on the window. Strange... It seemed familiar... Lightening flashed again as you stepped away. Ah yes. Cara. At least this time you got to see the light behind her eyes die away... Alec would understand. He'd understand. He had to understand...  
"Dad... What are you doing?"  
I turned around slowly._

"Alec?" I said, "What's wrong?" My son walked towards me, his eyes trained on her.  
"Why isn't she moving?" He whispered quietly. "Why dad?" I stopped. Now I had to tell him. Had to make him understand.  
"I did it for us son." I said calm as you please. "She was taking you away from me. You and my money." His stare turned to me an although I held my ground inwardly I flinched. His glare was... Cold.  
"I... Loved her." He whispered. "I loved her... You took her away from me..." He was walking towards me and I took a step back.  
"For us!" I said hurriedly. "For us Alec! She was taking us apart..." A shiny black barrel appeared from the pocket of his jeans. He wasn't doing this... Not to me... How could he?  
"And my mother?" He whispered. "What was your excuse then?" I froze. How? How had he... The world went black. The last thing I heard as I hit the ground was my son. My beloved son. "I... **_Hate you_**, dad."

* * *

"Mr. Lockheart. 15 minutes." I put my pen down and smiled slightly. A hand raised and pressed against my favourite scar, 5 millimetres closer to my chest and it would have punctured my lung. 'Alec...' He's taken up the family business. I'm possibly even more proud of him, he's on his 5th wife. Bless him. And I... I'm taking my final stand as it were. Before this is over, there's one thing I want to leave you with.

_"Cara? Love?" That's right keep knocking. Look through the letter box, through the key hole, run to the window and look through.  
"Mr. Lockheart?" Oh good. It seems nosey old bags have their uses... "Is something wrong?" Turn to her, a tired, amused and slightly annoyed expression on your face. Inside your panicking slightly. Damnit what's the stupid woman's name? O'Connel? O'Leary? O... Oh damn... Calm. Cool. Concentrate. It doesn't matter.  
"Yes. I've locked myself out of the house and Cara's fallen asleep." Put on a relieved smile, make it seem like you're happy to see her. She will be your second alibi.  
"Oh dear. Well, let's see if we can't get you in." From then on everything passes in a blur, and you know its all over. You've won. The police get called in to open the door, they find your wife. You play the part, 'Oh my darling wife! I can't believe it! How did it happen? How?!' And then it goes on. There won't be a post mortem. There wont be an investigation. And all that will happen is you'll get £50, 000 on the life insurance. Oh yes. She'll pay for that glass..._

I didn't notice the face at the bedroom window. You should. Always be alert, always be aware. The world would have you believe that there's no such thing as the perfect murder, but we must strive to do our very best. I grew so close... I implore you, all of you who read this and take my words to heart, follow my example. Just beware faces at the window.  
Happy hunting.  
Yours Faithfully

Jonathan Lockheart

* * *

The author of this book was killed as of lethal injection at 3:39pm on Friday 11th September on a charge of 8 murders and over 25 accounts of perverting the course of justice.  
The events and memoires recounted in this biography are not to ever be replicated.

* * *


End file.
